The Safety Of Your Arms
by AvoidingResponsibilities
Summary: After Violet is confronted by a dangerous group for being together with Tate, she realizes just how far she's willing to lie to keep him with her forever. {MY FIRST EVER FANFICTION, PLEASE REVIEW!}


She runs, her hair flying in messy tangles behind her, the blood trickling down her face tinting her vision red.

The footsteps behind her grow closer, and she increases her speed until the ache in her legs gives way to a relieving numbness. She can see the house; she's almost there. Just a bit further—

A hand blindly grabs at her arm and she yelps in surprise, swatting it off. Blood mixes with tears as the liquid runs down her face, and soon she can't see anything. She tries to focus on the one dark house on the neighborhood, the only one without any lights. She doesn't look back, for that will only distract her. She knows he's waiting, she knows. And once she's safe in his arms, in the house, then she can look back and ask what she's done to deserve this, why these bastards decided to mug her of all people on her way back home.

Twenty more yards, then fifteen, then ten, and she can see his golden hair glinting white in the moonlight. His face is concealed by darkness, but she can imagine the raise of his brow as he wonders why she's running, and then the narrowing of his eyes when he sees who's chasing her.

The footsteps behind her grow faster, more desperate as they realize she's almost at her home. More pairs of hands grab at her, but they all miss. She keeps her vision locked on the dark angel waiting for her in the yard—

And then her dress gets caught underneath her shoes, she trips onto the cement, and knows it's over. They'll all catch up to her now.

But still she attempts to push herself up on trembling arms, pull herself to the safety of the Murder House. She's held down quickly by a shoe placed in the center of her back, pushing her face down to meet the cold asphalt.

"What—" she chokes on blood, "What did I do?"

The person holding her down leans over her. "You're a freak, Violet Harmon. You're a danger to our community."

Her eyes widen. They must know. Someone must have seen her with Tate—and anyone could recognize his face. They must have remembered he was supposed to be dead, shot in his bedroom after killing those children.

"Remember your friend Leah?" she person holding her down snarls into her ear, and of course she remembers. Leah must have recognized Tate that day, when Violet had led her down to the basement for cocaine, but left with something very different. Tate had scared both of them that day, and although Violet remembers Leah telling her she'd never tell her parents what happened, what was stopping her from relaying the whole story back to her friends? Of course, Violet had been stupid. She wasn't careful; she was never careful. And look where she was now.

"She says you're dating a monster," her captor hisses, and looks across the street at where she knows Tate must still be. "Is that him? Is that the monster?"

"You're a sick bastard." Violet coughs, before twisting under the person's hold to grab their leg and shove it off of her. She breathes for a second, released of all the weight that was holding her down, but quickly springs up when she hears the shouts of protest from the rest of the group.

Violet runs towards the house once again, and he's already got the gate open. She dashes through the street and into the yard, not stopping until his arms are around her and his head is buried in her hair. She hears the gate slam closed and the click of the lock, and sighs in relief.

Tate pulls away for a moment to survey her, rubbing his thumb gently over the cut on her forehead she knows must be bleeding quite a lot. He sucks in a breath when he sees her arms, lined with bruises, looking almost yellow in the dark. "Who were they? What did they want?" he growls, his hands protectively tightening on her.

"Just some kids from school," she lies, because she has to. If she told Tate they were going to beat her up, maybe kill her, because of _him, _who knows what he'd do? He could slip into a murderous rage or deem it too dangerous for them to be together, and she couldn't have that. He was the only thing currently keeping her from pulling that razor horizontally right across her throat.

"Why?" Tate asks, and his voice sounds so pained that Violet has to nuzzle her nose against his jaw.

"I threw their football jerseys in the toilets a couple weeks ago," she says, her heart slowly breaking as she spouts her horrible lie, "This must have been payback."

Tate cups her face gently in his hands. "That's my girl," he kisses her forehead, "But if they e_ver _bother you again, come right home. I won't let anybody hurt you."

She smirks, "Maybe next time we invite them into the basement for cocaine?"

He laughs, and it pierces the darkness. "Nah, they're football players. They only like slutty girls."

"So we introduce them to Chad and Patrick?"

He laughs again, and she joins in, and then they're kissing. It tastes like salty tears and soon both of their mouths are filled with the metallic tang of blood, but they don't care. They're two freaks in love, a psychopathic boy and a suicidal girl, and for the moment, they couldn't be happier.


End file.
